


Periled Subscripts

by Cataclyzmic, Ominousmagic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/M, M/M, The Empty Hearse, bomb scene, right person wrong time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cataclyzmic/pseuds/Cataclyzmic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ominousmagic/pseuds/Ominousmagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John could die like this, with the knowledge of Sherlock’s love pressing into him: the sharp angles of Sherlock’s body, the kneading grip Sherlock had at his back, the soft caresses of Sherlock’s lips against his own, and the intoxicating words Sherlock sent chasing through his brain, healing freshly-opened scars and lighting dark-remembered corners. This would be the way Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Army Doctor, and soon-to-be husband of Mary Morstan would die. And he couldn’t be happier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Periled Subscripts

“The whole compartment is the bomb.”

 

Sherlock’s voice resonated through John’s mind. His shoulders tensed more and more with each cushion they tore away, revealing a different part of the bomb every time. John took the torch out of his mouth and turned around, watching as Sherlock lifted out a piece of the floor with a grunt. Inside was the body of the bomb, wires wrapped around the center like a radioactive fence, threatening all who stepped close enough. John was breathing deeply now, his stature reminiscent of the soldier within him. His voice tightened as he spoke. “We need bomb disposal.”

 

“There may not be time for that now,” Sherlock responded, his voice an allusion to John’s.

 

“So what do we do?”

 

Sherlock looked around the carriage, hand tightening on the torch. “There has to be something!” The detective turned around, his coat flourishing behind him. Before John knew it, Sherlock was standing on the seats, tearing off the adverts from the walls and pelting them to the ground. John joined him, examining every pole and every seat, desperate to find something that could potentially help them.

 

“John, help me with this,” Sherlock called out, pulling on the electronic sign that hung above the doorway. John jumped up, grabbed the other side, and pulled as Sherlock punched the top of the sign in an attempt to loosen it from the wall.

 

A minute later everything was on the floor. John examined the bomb from a distance, trying to recall anything he might have overheard from his army days, but he wasn’t having much luck. Sherlock grappled down to his knees and sorted through the materials from the old sign, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes moving rapidly. John didn’t dare interrupt his concentration.

 

But the second the bomb began its countdown, Sherlock’s eyes were on John’s, an apology written all over his face. John took another deep breath, moving two steps back and leaning on something for support. “Three minutes and thirty seconds.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you’re sure that there’s absolutely nothing we can do to stop it from going off?” John asked steadily, fingers paling from the pressure of his hold on the end-seat. His heart was heavy in his chest, the gravity of the situation pulling down on him like a dead weight.

 

“I don’t- I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock exhaled his words quickly, tangling his shaky fingers in the rubble of the cords.

 

John was pacing now. “You’re sorry – sorry!” he said exasperatedly. “That’s great. So, you’re clever enough to fake your own death, but you can’t disarm a bomb? Ha!”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head, his voice straining more with each word he spat out. “You can’t just expect me to disarm a bomb for goodness sake. Even my mind palace has its limitations.”

 

A grunt that much resembled a laugh fell from John’s lips. “You know what - sod this. I’m not spending the last few minutes of my life arguing with you. Not when --” He paused and bit his lip, hearing the echo of his words bounce off the walls of the carriage. He hadn’t realized how loudly he’d been speaking. He looked at Sherlock. Only a sliver of his face was visible to John, the dim light creating a sallow glow over his features. Even in the shadow of his view, John could tell Sherlock was afraid; his back hunched over, lips pressed together tightly, forbidding them to tremble. It was then that he realized he was taking more anger out on Sherlock than necessary, and time was not on their side. He dropped his voice to almost a whisper, speaking more to himself than to Sherlock.

 

“Not when I just got you back,” he finished.

 

“I just got you back, too,” Sherlock said, barely audible above the roar of his thumping heart.

 

John took a deep breath and looked away, words he wanted to say trapped in his throat like a locked cage. There was so much he needed to tell Sherlock, so much he needed him to know. There were things left unsaid between them -- unspoken agreements that they relied so heavily on to keep their relationship afloat. Sherlock’s return put a crack in the system they had made. John didn’t know where he stood in Sherlock’s life and he honestly didn’t know where Sherlock stood in his. He shook his head, steadily avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. “We’re not good at this stuff, you and I.” He motioned between them.

 

Sherlock snorted. “Brilliant deduction, John. Always stating the obvious,” he retorted, voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

“Oh, shut up for once, will you, Sherlock?” John sneered, anger building up inside of him, manifesting through every vein in his body.

 

Sherlock shut his mouth and jutted out his lip in a pout, but didn’t say anything further.

 

“I -- you were --” John stopped to cleared his throat, half attempting to buy himself time he didn’t have. “We’re not good at this… talking about anything that matters. But we’re going to die soon, Sherlock, and I need you to know that you are the best man that I have ever known and I didn’t doubt you for a second -- I never did.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes shot towards him, his pupils darting across John’s face. John was used to the scrutiny of Sherlock’s gaze, but it was different now, somehow. He laid himself out like an open book, completely vulnerable. What he wasn’t expecting was the hesitation displayed on Sherlock’s countenance. His breath evened out as if he were trying to collect himself.

 

“I know.”

 

John’s mouth slacked slightly, taken aback by Sherlock’s response. They didn’t have much time left. “I’m not going to apologize for reacting the way I did when I found out you were alive. Your death may have been fake, but it was real to me. You told me -- you told me that it was the two of us against the world, yeah?”

 

Sherlock continued to look at him with an unwavering stare. “Always, John.”

 

“Didn’t feel that way for the past two years,” he returned quickly.

 

“I didn’t have a choice. If there had been any other-” Sherlock’s words sounded rehearsed, as if he had planned for this conversation.

 

“But I forgive you.”

 

Sherlock stared at John with a look of surprise. John stared back, trying to absorb the brilliant expressions that radiated on the consulting detective’s face -- they were looks he would cherish if they were in any other situation.

 

Afraid of wasting another minute, John opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock had beaten him to it. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told I’m different: that I’m not wired the same way other people are.”

 

Sherlock let go of the wires in his hand and stood up, brushing his hands on the sides of his coat. His fingers started to fiddle with a piece of lint he had pulled from his coat pocket, his eyes trained on pulling it apart. “At first, I thought it was my brain that made me different, but it wasn’t, not really. My whole life, I’d fought to compensate for my… disability. Like a man deprived of one of his senses, I worked the muscles in my brain to be faster, more clever, better than anyone else’s so others couldn’t bring me down. So I could live an almost-life, even if it was just with myself.”

 

Sherlock was out of breath from speaking so quickly, his eyes were staring into John’s with fervid conviction. “When Moriarty said he wanted to burn the heart out of me, I told him I didn’t have one. Because until I met you, I believed it.”

 

John worked his jaw, Sherlock’s words echoing in his head. Suddenly everything about the detective made sense. All of the complexities of Sherlock’s emotions were nothing more than a tangled jumble of humanities. John found himself looking at the floor. “You’ve always had a heart.”

 

“You’re one of the few who believe so,” Sherlock said.

 

John waited a moment, unable to word his thoughts together quickly enough. “I meant what I said, Sherlock. You are the best and wisest man I’ve ever known. And I suppose if this is the last chance to say it--” John hesitated. Sherlock’s eyes penetrated into his. He had to say it, he was about to die and he had to say it. John thought back to the life he had before Sherlock jumped off the roof of Saint Bart’s hospital. Sherlock knew how he felt about him, he didn’t exactly hide his feelings, even if he didn’t completely understand them fully himself at the time. And now with a minute left on the bomb timer, everything became clear to him.

 

He thought of Mary. Mary, extraordinary woman who managed to dig him out of the grave he had sunk himself in after Sherlock’s death just by being herself. His stomach twinged. He remembered the conversation he and Mary had before he left that morning. Mary had said that she wanted him to be happy, whatever the cost. John had given her a look at the time, but now he finally knew what she meant. She was giving him permission if they were in danger, if his life was ending. Permission to…. John looked up and opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock’s gaze confirmed everything he was about to say. “Well, you already know.”

 

Sherlock took a hesitant step towards John, his eyes flickering uncertainly between John’s. John felt a sudden heat reverberating through him, sending a pulse straight to his groin. Suddenly there wasn’t enough air to breathe.

 

“Yes.”

 

John knew about sexual tension. If his years in the Army didn’t make him an expert, living with the world’s only consulting detective gave him ample time to associate himself with the feeling. And as Sherlock stepped closer to him, the tang of it became palpable.

 

He let out a helpless gasp when Sherlock’s fingers grazed across his left cheekbone as if he were fine china. His breath quickened, watching as Sherlock’s eyes followed the path of his fingers before settling back on John’s unquestioningly. Sherlock’s right hand snaked its way around to cup John’s skull while the other grasped firmly at his lapels. The realization of the situation hit him and John grabbed at Sherlock’s wrist with one hand and fisted his other in Sherlock’s shirt, resisting the inevitable.

 

“Sherlock,” he said in warning or invitation, he wasn’t sure. The will power and loyalty he prided himself on was crumbling around him and he never felt more out of control. Like the first night John met Sherlock, his world was being tilted into an amalgamation of familiar and unfamiliar territory and the thrill of it was doing things to his mind and body that he couldn’t resist.

 

Sherlock brought their foreheads together, allowing their breath to mingle in the heating air between them. Like a petulant child, John pressed his lips together and breathed heavily through his nose, clinging to the last of his sanity. It was all John could do to keep from whimpering as Sherlock nuzzled against him so delicately, “John.”

 

Mary’s voice echoed through his head: Your happiness. Whatever the cost. There is nothing I wouldn’t allow to make you happy-

 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, pleading. So very different from the voice in his head. So very male. So very deep and alluring, even in its fragile state.

 

So very not Mary.

 

Her words provided the litany for his own benediction.

 

“Whatever the cost,” he whispered.

 

Like every situation he faced with Sherlock, John plunged into it blindly and with the utmost faith that Sherlock would get them out alive. So before he could change his mind, John brought their lips together in thundering madness.

 

There was nothing gentle about their kiss. John reached up to grasp Sherlock’s head in his hands and hold their mouths together in an appropriate mix of teeth and lips that caused his hips to cant wantonly. Sherlock reciprocated, shoving John back against the car wall and all but forcing his tongue into John’s mouth. He brought his point home by slotting his body flush with John’s and pressed their hips together with singular intent. The connection brought groans out of the deep recesses of their throats and John threw his head back against the wall with a sickening thud, but he couldn’t bare to be bothered by it. Sherlock immediately attached his mouth to that soft patch of skin behind John’s ear, making John’s knees to buckle. Not to be outdone, he quickly palmed his way down to Sherlock’s arse and squeezed. The sound that came out of Sherlock’s throat as he detached himself from John’s neck was inhuman, animalistic, and as he stared down at John in disbelief, his pupils were blown wide with arousal.

 

You’re not the only one with deductive skills, John thought to himself as he gave his arse another squeeze, causing Sherlock’s hips to rut spastically against his thigh. He gave Sherlock a shit-eating grin before bringing their mouths back together. Why didn’t they do this all the time?

 

John could die like this, with the knowledge of Sherlock’s love pressing into him: the sharp angles of Sherlock’s body, the kneading grip Sherlock had at his back, the soft caresses of Sherlock’s lips against his own, and the intoxicating words Sherlock sent chasing through his brain, healing freshly-opened scars and lighting dark-remembered corners. This would be the way Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Army Doctor, and soon-to-be husband of Mary Morstan would die. And he couldn’t be happier.

 

The thought made him giggle and Sherlock pulled away to give John an intoxicated, but questioning look. “If you’d told me I was going to die like this when we were on the train tracks, I’d have punched you in the face again, just to see if it were real.”

 

What John expected was for Sherlock to giggle with him before they could continue snogging the life out of each other – literally. What he didn’t expect was for Sherlock’s eyes to blow widely out of proportion with a gasping “Oh!” before racing off to the other end of the car.

 

Dazed, John glanced at the timer. Forty-seven seconds.

 

“As ever you are a brilliant conductor of light,” Sherlock declared, pulling out the wires from the electronic sign that laid prostrate on the ground.

 

“I don’t understand, what’s going on?” John asked briskly, bending down next to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and grabbed out a small screwdriver, unscrewing the cover to the timer as fast as he could.

 

“Where on earth did you get that from?” John asked again, feeling particularly lost.

 

“Screwdrivers are an excellent tool to keep with you at all times. Very useful for breaking into household locks and the occasional bomb.” Sherlock threw off the top of the timer, the piece of plastic skidding across the carriage. He hesitated a moment before touching the wire he had grabbed to a cord in the timer. “You need to touch the other end of this wire to the train tracks outside. They’re active right now, and these are copper wires -- they’re very conductive. The electricity will travel through the wire and blow out the fuse in the timer. Maybe.”

 

“Brilliant!”

 

“There are two ways this situation can play out,” he began, talking close to the speed of light. “The first way is that it will work and the bomb will be stopped.” He never took his eyes off John’s. “The second way is that I’ve unfortunately attached this wire to the wrong cord and the current of electricity will cause the timer speed up, detonating the bomb in about a half a second.”

 

John’s heart clenched with the hope of being able to successfully stop the bomb. “We’ve nothing to lose.”

 

Sherlock smiled slightly, holding out the wire to John. “It will be about two seconds before the wire melts. Don’t worry about getting electrocuted. Electrons are very lazy, they’ll always take the path of less resistance. In this case, that’ll be the wire, not you.”

 

John took the wire, brushing Sherlock’s hand lightly in the process. John relished in the moment, knowing that they might never touch again. With the wire at the ready, John dashed out of the carriage door, bending down near the tracks.

 

“Ready when you are!” he shouted.

 

His heart was thumping out of his chest, adrenaline spiking through him like a car on a race track. His blood was a vehicle, zooming through his skin at a hundred miles an hour, turning sharply through every artery. However, John’s hands were perfectly still as they draped the wire a few centimeters from the track, waiting for Sherlock’s command.

 

John thought of Mary. He thought of Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and Greg. He thought of his army days and his crime-solving days. And he thought of Sherlock. Sherlock, the man who had saved him, the man who had become his best friend, the man who had taken it all away again by jumping off of a building. And yet John wouldn’t have had it any other way. Learning London as a battlefield, laughing until he was out of breath, feeling free again. John recalled the feeling of Sherlock’s lips brushed up against his, the feeling of Sherlock caving around him, their breath mingling. And just then, John knew what his last thought would be. He was desperately in love with Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Now!” Sherlock yelled.

 

John shut his eyes and pushed the wire against the tracks. He held his breath for the moment of silence that followed.

 

There was nothing.

 

Absolutely nothing.

 

He opened his eyes minutely, gaze falling on the melted wire in his hand.

 

Suddenly hands were pulling him up, grabbing at his sides and a nose was buried deep in the crook of his neck. “John,” Sherlock breathed, his voice full of relief.

 

John hugged back, panting. “We did it, Sherlock,” he said in between weighted breaths. “Jesus, we actually did it.”

 

John felt a deep vibration power through his skin. Sherlock was laughing. Actually laughing. And John couldn’t help but to join.

 

Their laughter shook them apart until they were leaning on each other’s shoulder to keep from falling over. John started to take an uncalculated step back toward the train tracks before Sherlock caught him by the arm and pulled him away.

 

“Oh no, you don’t want to do that. You might get yourself killed.” The corner of Sherlock’s lip twitched visibly as he tried to keep a straight face. John pursed his lips together unsuccessfully before they burst into laughter all over again.

 

As soon as John calmed down enough to move properly, he walked over to the car door and opened it wide, indicating Sherlock to jump back up.

 

“Watch your step,” he announced as Sherlock stepped up. The two of them giggled in a very unmanly fashion before John stepped in behind Sherlock, giving the consulting detective’s arse a firm squeeze on the way up.

 

They were still giggling when John backed Sherlock into the opposite wall, wrapping his arms around Sherlock in a lazy embrace. He brought their mouths together again. It was more the two of them pressing their stupid grins together than a kiss at first, but then John paused, separating his lips from Sherlock’s to look at him. Sherlock’s face was flushed from cheekbones to collar. John chuckled lightly before briefly closing the gap again.

 

“Brilliant.” A peck on the lips.

 

“Fantastic.” A peck on one eye.

 

“Amazing.” A peck on the other.

 

“Incredible.” A peck on his nose.

 

“Unbelievable.” He settled his lips on Sherlock’s forehead and breathed in the smell of his hair. Sherlock’s own breath was heavy beneath John, Sherlock’s hands in a steel grip with John’s cardigan.

 

The sound of John’s phone chirping made them both jump.

 

Slowly, John pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and opened the screen, keeping his other hand in Sherlock’s hair.

 

Eggs and Milk, the alarm blinked up at him. He blinked back as the reality set in.

 

Numbness settled in John’s veins. And he could feel Sherlock slump into the seat beneath him.

 

Mary. His future wife. His other life.

 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, bringing Sherlock’s head to his chest. He squeezed Sherlock’s head in closer. Sherlock reciprocated, circling his arms around John’s middle and bringing him closer in a knowing embrace.

 

It didn’t take a brilliant mind like Sherlock’s to deduce the moment they became he and him. Sherlock knew. Of course he knew. When did anything ever get past him?

 

To his right, John could see torches in the distance, searching across the tracks in long sweeps of light.

 

“Sherlock…” He whispered the word. Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t hear the guilt in his voice.

 

“I know, John.” Sherlock slowly disengaged himself from John’s grip.

 

“Sherlock,” John pleaded, reaching for Sherlock face to bring it back to look at his.

 

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists and looked him in the eye saying, “It’s fine, John. It’s all fine,” before releasing them and walking towards the car door.

 

“Please, Sherlock, just-” John grabbed at Sherlock’s arm, but Sherlock spun on him before he could get a good grip.

 

“Don’t.” His voice was firm and John could see the torch lights flash in his eyes as they approached the car. As quickly as Sherlock moved towards him, he was gone: Out the door of the car and on the tracks.

 

“We’re here!” he announced, raising his hand to the advancing officers, tucking his coat tightly around him.

 

While the bomb squad inspected the car below, the police escorted them up the stairs to the ambulances on the streets above, prodding them with questions.

 

Lestrade had cornered John and wrapped a shock blanket around his shoulders while a less-experienced member of the team was speaking with Sherlock a few feet away from him. There was a new level of detachment playing across Sherlock’s face that John didn’t recognize.

 

“Jesus Christ. How the Hell did the two of you manage to disarm that bomb?” Lestrade asked incredulously.

 

“It was, um, the train tracks,” John said distractedly, trying to move past Lestrade to get to Sherlock. He still had things he needed to say.

 

“Train tracks?” Lestrade gave him a funny look.

 

Sherlock was no doubt threatening the poor officer, given the horrified look the man had on his face.

 

“Yeah, uh, the light-up things,” John responded absently.

 

Before the officer could compose his face to attempt a feeble retort, Sherlock was ducking around him in the direction of the dimly lit streets.

 

“Light-up things? John, you have to be more specific-” Lestrade started, but John was already gone, trying to make his way through the crowds of people.

 

“Sherlock!” he screamed, the figure retreating farther away.

 

Before he could get much further, though, a pair of small arms wrapped themselves around him. “John! Thank God you’re okay.”

 

Mary hugged herself to his chest, where he could feel her body shaking with the onslaught of tears running down her face. John put his hands around her and John hugged her back, raising his head just enough to watch Sherlock disappear around the corner of the street.

 

\---

 

Sherlock continued on his path away from John. He did not hear the pain in John’s voice when he called his name and he did not look back. Instead, he popped his collar up around his neck and pulled his coat in tighter around his body to keep the cold from sinking any farther into his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for Tumblr user Sherlyswag, who won our 500-follower give-a-way on So-you-wanna-read-fanfiction.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Originally, Cat was going to be the sole writer, but the prompt she was given, coincidentally, was the same one I was attempting to write, so we decided to team up! (Because who can accept an on and off switch? Atrocious.) 
> 
> We each wrote separate parts of the fic and edited each other's sections. Hopefully you didn't notice! And we hope you enjoyed it just as much as we enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> PS. The way Sherlock and John diffused the bomb could POTENTIALLY work, though it would take serious skill to get it just right. I spent an hour talking to the physics teacher about it, haha. But you know, creative license and all that.
> 
> My Tumblr: Johnwartson  
> Cat's Tumblr: Cataclyzmic  
> Our fanfic blog: so-you-wanna-read-fanfiction


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